


Deeper

by Boton



Series: Deeper [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate and Illegal Attempt at Self-Comfort, Missing Scene, Self-Recrimination, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stumbled onto the plane from the tarmac and nearly collapsed into his seat, closing his eyes as the MI5 agent chirped, “Welcome aboard, sir. Hope you have a pleasant flight!” Mycroft’s doing, of course. Everyone on that plane knew that he was a murderer being flown to his death, but Mycroft would insist on things being just so up until the point that he was unceremoniously dumped out somewhere in Eastern Europe with file of information downloaded to his phone and an impossible mission to perform.</p><p>To solve the case and get a reprieve, he'd have to go deeper than he'd ever gone before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deeper

**Author's Note:**

> Four viewings in to TAB with one more in the theater tonight for me. With so much TAB running through my head, I figured that we are all entitled to write at least one self-indulgently angsty fic about the episode. So I wondered, what exactly was going through Sherlock's head that made him go deeper and deeper over the course of a five minute return plane ride?
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.
> 
> As always, the author suggests you not take your behavioral cues from fictional consulting detective drug users. Don't use and deduce, folks!

Sherlock stumbled onto the plane from the tarmac and nearly collapsed into his seat, closing his eyes as the MI5 agent chirped, “Welcome aboard, sir. Hope you have a pleasant flight!” Mycroft’s doing, of course. Everyone on that plane knew that he was a murderer being flown to his death, but Mycroft would insist on things being just so up until the point that he was unceremoniously dumped out somewhere in Eastern Europe with file of information downloaded to his phone and an impossible mission to perform.

But all of that seemed distant right now; opiates would do that for you. Opiates were painkillers, and at no time had he ever needed to dull the pain as much as he did today. A dose thrumming through his veins had allowed him to keep it together to say goodbye to Mary and then to John. Just a bit of chemically-induced distance to pull him back from the edge and allow him to join John in creating the mutual fantasy that this was just a mission he was going on until things blew over. John knew; of course he did. He had tried to broach the subject – “the game is over” – but Sherlock would not allow it, would not permit this friendship to end on a note as tragic as it’s beginning was magical.

In fact, there had been a lot of pretending in the past 24 hours. Mycroft had come to his cell for a last visit; amazing how comfortable an MI5 prison could really be, although solitary confinement was still solitary confinement. 

“You will be permitted to say good-bye to some of your ‘chums,’” Mycroft said dismissively, holding himself at the distance that had always characterized their relationship. “The Watsons will be at the airport tomorrow; is there anyone else you would like to see tonight?”

A taunt? A gambit? An offer of mercy? After a week of sitting alone in a small room, examining the way that his life had gone so wrong, Sherlock hardly knew what to say. If he asked, Mycroft would surely produce anyone Sherlock asked for: their parents, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Even Molly or Janine. Each person with a different reason for being disappointed in him, each one wronged in some way. He couldn’t bear to face the look in their eyes.

“Wiggins,” he said shortly. 

“Ah, yes, part of your so-called homeless network,” Mycroft said, comprehension behind his eyes. “What you have found in common with these people, I’m sure I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Sherlock retorted.

And Wiggins was procured. 

“’Ere ya go, Mr. Holmes. Best I could do on the short notice,” he said, handing across small packages of pills and powders that could be concealed in his coat lining or his waistband or a random garment hem. “I tested everything meself. It’s pure,” Wiggins added.

Sherlock had no doubt that he had. Wiggins indeed had the makings of an excellent chemist, easily grasping the principles of antisepsis and of purity testing that Sherlock taught him, learning how important it was to be certain what one was introducing into one’s body. A different education, a different start, and Wiggins would be a scientist, Sherlock mused. As it was, he was just another junkie. Then again, the posh boarding schools and fine upbringing had scarcely saved Sherlock from the same fate, he thought. The line between “user” and “addict” was one that Sherlock had danced around his entire adult life, but now it didn’t matter any more. A relief, perhaps; a silver lining in all of this pain that he could soon stop fighting the battle to keep himself under control.

Sherlock picked up his phone and connected to the in-air wi-fi and looked up John’s blog. He went directly to John’s story of their first meeting; he could feel the hope, the insanity, and the release for both of them at having found a friendship that would free them both from their demons, or, at least, help to keep those demons at bay.

His thoughts were interrupted by a phone thrust into his hand. Mycroft. 

“I’ve only been gone four minutes,” he spat disdainfully. 

“Well, I hope you’ve learnt your lesson,” Mycroft said on the other end. “As it turns out, you’re needed.”

Hope sprang in Sherlock’s chest, quickly damped down. “Oh, for God’s sake, make up your mind. Who needs me this time?”

Just then, the MI5 agents on the plane snapped on the television, where a grotesque portrayal of Moriarty was on the screen. “Did you miss me?” it chattered, as Mycroft said, “England.”

Sherlock disconnected and stared dumbly at the screen. “It’s James Moriarty,” said one of the agents in the background. “He’s alive, or he’s back, or something. But how can he be? I’ve seen the file; classified, but there are pictures in there for cripe’s sake of the body with the back of its head blown off.”

Sherlock knew his mission even before touchdown. Mycroft was bringing him back, but he had to solve this case, and he had to do it right now, or he wouldn’t be allowed to stay. A thread of anxiety bordering on terror began to bleed through the opiate haze, and Sherlock reached for his pocket, pulling out a small envelope of powder. A careful second of weighing it on his fingertip – years of experience had developed this odd talent – and he brought it to his nose and sniffed. He reached for his other pocket and pulled out a Moleskine in which he’d started a list, and he made a notation. Bloody useless process, but it was practically muscle memory by now; he could no more use without taking notes than he could solve a case without explaining later to an audience. 

The drug hit his system, bringing a burst of energy and a sense of a sharpened focus. He began to retreat into his mind palace, intent on figuring out how someone could commit a very visible suicide and come back from the dead later. There was a case, one he read about, back when he was investigating the not-suicide of Henry Fishguard and the utter cock-up the Bow Street Runners had made of that case. Back when John wanted him to lie low and not allow such an insanely public profile. He’d been reading old cases, unsolved cases, because John wanted to manage the way people perceived him, and that started with not attracting so much attention. Foolish John. Attempting to turn him from what he was into something worthy of John’s friendship. Honorable John, who would never want a drug user and a murderer for a friend, constantly rewriting the truth of Sherlock’s life. John’s blog turned flaws into quirks and faults into humorous anecdotes, and, along the way, it must have turned Sherlock Holmes into someone John Watson would consent to call a friend.

But John wouldn’t want him for a friend now. Nor would Molly, or Lestrade, or Janine. Not even Mrs. Hudson. Surely the only use he would be to them now was as someone who could solve cases faster than anyone else. Even Mycroft was smarter, Sherlock knew, but Sherlock was quicker to make the connections. It was all he had, all he was to them. And if he couldn’t do it this time, they’d bundle him back onto this plane and he’d be back on his way to a Serbian torture cell where he would die while trying not to think of people and the country he’d left behind.

He had to solve the Moriarty case, and he had to solve it now. And it all hinged on dredging up that old case – what was it? Ricoletti? – from his mind and solving it instead. But it was buried, and he had to make the connections, and he had to do it right this minute. He needed to be sharper, sharper than he’d ever been before.

He’d have to go deeper, he thought, as he reached for the paper packet inside his coat pocket, took out what he needed, and moved to make another note on his list. He’d go as deep as he needed. And maybe, if he went deep enough, he’d not have to confront the disappointment in his friends’ eyes. He closed his eyes, and, without even needing to look, reached back in his pocket and prepared to go still deeper.


End file.
